The Flower of Wales
by CSI Clue
Summary: Has Major Channing Channing of the Chesterfield Channings finally met his match?
1. Chapter 1

Braith Megwen Jones was not prone to hysterics, but at the moment she felt dangerously close to giving into them. She was tired, frustrated, uncomfortable, and now had the added indignant possibility of having her trip end here on the doorstep of Woolsey castle without so much as a moment with the one person who might be able to help her.

"Please, it's extremely important I speak with Professor Lyall," she told the aloof butler who stood before her. "The matter is . . . urgent."

At her pleading tone the butler unbent a tiny bit and took the little card she held out, accepting it on a pewter platter. He led her into the main hall of the castle and to the left, into the drawing room. It was decorated in mahogany and green baize and held a great number of woodland oils but Braith barely noticed them and settled herself on a divan, glad to finally be off her feet for the moment. The long walk up the drive had been just that, but what little money she had left had to be saved for the return trip to Brecknock.

She sighed, and took off her gloves, hoping the professor was in, and more than that, that he could help because the full moon would be in two nights and Braith wasn't sure she could handle the havoc it brought anymore.

Anyone looking at her would see a rounded young woman with dark red hair and a distressing number of freckles spattered on a pert nose. Her dull blue merino traveling dress was a bit wrinkled and her cloak could use a cleaning but given the distance she'd come Braith thought she wasn't too unpresentable for the moment. At least, she hoped she wasn't. Braith sighed.

"I'm telling you it's positively _tiresome_ to have to hire on a new one," came a cultured voice from outside the door. An annoyed cultured voice. "Humans simply ought to live longer."

"Most of them try," came a softer voice. "Now if we may see about this visitor, Major—"

The door opened and Braith watched two men enter. She clutched her reticule and gazed at them, unsure which of them to address, nothing that they were both inhaling deeply. The slighter sandy-haired man came to her aid, giving her a gentle smile as he came over and bowed to her. "Miss Jones I presume? I'm Professor Randolph Lyall, and this is Major Channing."

"Of the Chesterfield Channgings," the other, white-blond man added, as if the distinction was of great importance. Braith held out her hand and each man bowed over it, but while the professor released his grip after a moment, it seemed to take the major a moment longer and he did so reluctantly.

"Thank you for seeing me, sir," Braith murmured, and took a breath. "I was told by the local BUR agent in Brecknock that you were the best person to contact for my circumstance, and while normally I would have arranged a proper introduction, time is of the essence."

"Then I will do my best to assist you, Miss Jones," Professor Lyall replied as he took a seat across from her, "but it would help if I knew in what capacity you are coming to me. As a member of BUR, or as Beta to the Woolsey Pack?"

"As an . . . expert on werewolves," she admitted, shooting an anxious look at the Major, who was still standing as if at attention. "A scientific expert."

"Ah. Well while I've conducted both formal and informal studies for many decades, I'm far from an expert, Miss Jones," Professor Lyall replied. "What, precisely, is your . . . circumstance?"

"I've become a werewolf," she blurted.

Both men stared at her, and Braith felt herself flush red; partially in embarrassment and partially because the combined stare of two men was completely out of her range of previous experience.

"Impossible!" Major Channing declared. "A chit like you?"

She felt it rising in her throat, and before she could stop it, Braith growled at him. The low, dangerous rumble rolled out, vibrating in the air, clearly not human at all.

Major Channing jerked his head back at the menacing sound; Professor Lyall cocked his curiously. "Gracious," he murmured.

Braith took a deep breath, forcing herself to calm down. "I _do_ apologize Major. It has been a _very_ long day and I've come quite far."

"Quite right, I should have offered tea before this," Professor Lyall murmured, reaching for the bell pull. A servant appeared at the door. "Ah, Rumpet, a spot of tea and some refreshments for the lady, please."

Braith felt the Major's gaze on her like a weight, and she refused to meet his eyes, focusing on Professor Lyall once more. "It's uncommon I know, exceedingly rare, but the matter is far _worse_ than that."

"Worse?"

"I was not . . . bitten," Braith told them.

"Not . . . bitten," Major Channing echoed, his handsome face perplexed now. "That's not possible. People don't _spontaneously_ become werewolves!"

"I know," Braith agreed. "And yet in my case, no fang or tooth has ever touched my skin. There are only four werewolves in the entire county of Powys, all of them a little pack at Castle Du and all of them part of the 41st Regiment. They're nowhere _near_ Brecknock. And in any event I'd _remember_ being bitten."

"Curious," Professor Lyall agreed. "So do you know _what_ , er, converted you, Miss Jones?"

"Yes," she sighed, and pulled a journal out of her reticule, flipping open to a marked page. "This."

The drawing of the slender stalked plant with the pale lavender blossoms seemed familiar to Professor Lyall; Braight watched him take the journal from her and study it closely. "Wolfsbane, although the color is highly unusual."

"I didn't recognize it at first myself; the shade also threw me off," she admitted. "It was growing at the mouth of a cave I was studying."

"And this . . . changed you?" Major Channing demanded, a hint of scepticism coming back into his voice.

"I took the regrettable action of picking it and sniffing the blossoms," Braith told them, "And yes, I wish I had not, but at the time I wanted to know more about the plant. It had no particular scent, and I set the cluster into my collection basket along with the morels I had been gathering at the time."

"And then?" Professor Lyall gently prodded. At that point the butler entered with a tray that he set for them. The professor poured and that gave Braith a moment to compose herself.

"By the time I reached my cottage the plant had gone completely black and slimy," she told them. "A repulsive mess that took me an age to wash out of my basket, in fact. I chalked it up to the heat of the sun and didn't think anything more of it until that night."

"Which was a full moon?" the professor offered.

Braith nodded, biting her lip for a moment. "Quite. I took to my bed early, feeling very out of sorts only to find myself in the most extreme pain as the night progressed. I cannot for the life of me understand how those of you who choose this lifestyle _bear_ it, frankly. As it was I ended up destroying most of my boudoir before running off into the night and bringing down more hares than I care to mention."

The major was smirking now, and Braith wished she could slap the condescending expression off of his handsome face. Professor Lyall however looked far more compassionate. "That does sound like the change all right. Did you return before sunrise?"

"I did, driven by instinct I suppose," Braith murmured. "By that evening I'd thought to lock myself into the root cellar as a precaution but it still cost me the better part of a shelf of preserves."

She didn't mention the humiliation and drudgery of cleaning the messes all on her own. Braith wasn't one to look for pity, only answers.

"How long ago was this?" The major asked, his gaze still suspicious.

"Nearly two months ago," Braith took a sip of tea. "I was sure the first time was some sort of . . . fit, or aberration I suppose. We do so try to avoid the truth when it's unpleasant, don't we? But last month, I broke out of the root cellar and, well, the next farm over had a flock of sheep, you see . . ."

"Oh dear."

"Two," Braith confessed miserably. "Naturally the farmers began talking of a hunt, thinking it was a regular wolf but if it keeps happening they'll figure it out soon enough, and I cannot bear the thought of what I am doing to my town, professor. I didn't _choose_ to become this way, and I don't choose to hurt them or anyone!"

She was dangerously close to tears, so Braith lifted her chin to prevent them and took another sip of the tea. Professor Lyall still had her journal in his hand and took another look at it, kindly giving her time to compose herself. Major Channing gazed at her though, his expression a bit flinty.

"What proof do you have for your claim? Can you change, right now?" he asked bluntly.

Braith blushed. "No."

"No?" The Major's echo sounded suspiciously like a gloat, but Professor Lyall cleared his throat.

"Channing, that sort of control takes _years_ to master as you very well know. Barely half our pack can manage it outside the full moon even now, so to demand it of this young lady is both crass and impractical. Miss Jones, our Alphas are currently in town, but are expected back in a few hours. On their behalf I extend the hospitality of the Woolsey Pack to you for the duration of your visit. I would very _much_ like to take on your case and see what more we can discover about your, er, situation if that will help matters."

"Thank you," Braith breathed gratefully. "I would appreciate it greatly, and in return would be happy to offer in return what few skills I have . . . sewing, perhaps or if you need anything calculated or tallied."

"You can handle numbers?" The major asked sharply. "What's four hundred and twelve times twenty-four?"

"Nine thousand eight hundred and eighty-eight," Braith replied after a moment. "I'm fairly sure."

"And six hundred forty three divided by seventy eight?"

"Eight and a fourth over, but I'd have to put it to paper if you want all out to the last place," Braith told him impatiently. "As I said, I'm fairly competent with numbers, sir." Glancing at Professor Lyall she added, "My father taught maths at Trinity in Carmarthen."

Braith caught both the look of approval on the professor's face, and the one of grudging admiration on the major's as she took another sip of tea. She felt better, both for the tea and the chance to prove a little of her worth, Braith thought. Clearly coming to see Professor Lyall had been the right choice, although she wasn't as sure about the Major, who still looked as if he disliked her.

 _Ah well,_ Braith thought. _You can't win everyone over_.


	2. Chapter 2

Channing Hector Blyth Channing found himself vexed, which was not a common condition. Most of his life was fairly straightforward and he liked things orderly; that is to say, _his_ way. Channing had spent much of his life on order: creating it, maintaining it, and if necessary, inflicting it on those under his eye. His soldiers and his pack understood their place and his; their duties and his without fail. Channing believed in the hierarchy of the pack even if he chafed a bit at being Gamma at this point.

That being said, the very idea of a _female_ joining the pack had him uneasy. He'd come to terms with their Alpha's mate, Lady Maccon, and although their initial meeting had been somewhat humiliating, Channing had grown to respect her despite everything that had passed between them. For one, she alone could keep her husband on an even keel, no small accomplishment right there. She also took her duties to the pack seriously, and allowed them to get on with the business of being werewolves, even if she wasn't one herself.

But a female werewolf . . . _that_ could be trouble, Channing knew. This Miss Jones couldn't be Alpha female; that was Lady Maccon's rank werewolf or no. At best this girl might be Beta female, which meant Professor Lyall would eventually be expected to claim her as mate—something he _wouldn't_ do, Channing knew. While charming and considerate of the opposite sex, Randolph Lyall had no particular romantic interest in anyone, a quiet and unspoken truth known through the pack.

That left him, as the Gamma, to make the claim and Channing wasn't at all certain he wanted to. It wasn't that the girl was unattractive, not with that fascinating hair and those big green eyes. Too, Channing had always _liked_ curves on a woman, being of the school that women ought to be a proper armful instead of a bundle of sticks. No, the issue lay with her personality, which cleary was hardly feminine or appealing.

Channing liked women who needed a firm hand, who would eventually yield to him in the natural order of things. The game of rebuff and regroup, of pressing through the levels of flirtations to claim the carnal prize was what he knew best, and did best. It didn't hurt that he was handsome, and knew it; that he was considered a prize in London society. Everyone understood that werewolves were good lovers just as they knew the prospect of marrying one was highly unlikely. Few wives—Lady Maccon being the current exception—would be willing to live with dozens of pack mates as per werewolf protocol.

But this woman—this _werewolf_ —would have to work out her own rank within the pack. Channing snickered at the thought of a bluestocking like Miss Jones bossing the lesser pups around and them having to take it. That alone would give good entertainment value.

But the thought of her outranking _him_ was not to be tolerated.

If it came to it, she might very well have to fight for her place, and _that_ would be a travesty, he thought sourly. A snippet like her would lose of course, and be dismissed from the pack, sent back to whatever miserable Welsh village she'd come from, tail between her legs to live out the rest of her supernatural days as a loner.

A waste, of course.

Loners were always viewed with suspicion, going as they did against the pack structure. More so for a female, who would never even bear pups of her own. Channing grunted, realizing his thoughts were depressing him unduly. He looked up from the household accounts book and called for one of the clavigers. "Where is Miss Jones at the moment?"

"She's in the library sir," the strapping lad replied politely.

Channing nodded a dismissal and made his way there, wondering what she was reading.

The library was filled.

Annoyed, Channing stood in the doorway, noting that at least _six_ of the Woolsey pack where loitering about some of them hardly subtle, others more openly assisting Miss Jones, who seemed amused at her sudden popularity since being introduced to the pack that morning. With a hard glare, Channing cleared his throat; immediately the younger pups began clearing out, shooting wistful and slightly guilty looks as they did so. One by one they slipped past him, leaving the Major and Miss Jones to themselves in the library.

"Well that was quick," she murmured, looking around and then directing her gaze to Channing. "Aren't they allowed to socialize with me?"

"In moderation, miss. Women are bad for discipline; they distract us from our duties," Channing rumbled, sauntering over to her.

"Ah," she replied serenely. "Yes I'm sure my considerable charm and beauty had them all atizzy."

Channing wasn't sure how to reply to that, so he focused instead on the book in her hands. "What are you reading?"

"What little there is on wolfsbane. You would think that a plant so recognized might have more written lore about it, but there are only a few mentions here and there, and much of it the same. I've only located one legend that suggests it might cause a metamorphosis."

Interested despite himself, Channing asked, "And?"

"It's apocryphal of course. A legend collected from Travellers," Braith sighed. "This library is wonderful, by the by; so much here to enjoy. Is it the Earl's family collection?"

"Most of it was here from the previous pack leader, but it's been supplemented by the Earl, Professor Lyall and others," Channing replied. "On occasion we add our own memoirs and holdings."

"Well it's a treasure," Braith told him. "Your pack is lucky to have it."

"I suppose. What little we have of werewolf protocol is here—" he pulled a volume out from a near shelf and handed it to her. "Hessenthaler's book. It's been updated but the basic information is still solid. If I were you, I would start with this, especially if you are going to be with us for any length of time. I realize it may be difficult reading so if you have questions do not hesitate to come to me or Professor Lyall."

"Thank you," Braith told him in what he realized was a dry tone. "I'm grateful for your, er, guidance. How long have you yourself been . . . with this pack?"

It was an impertinent question coming from a pup, but Channing gave consideration to her sex and replied, "Nearly fifty years, Miss Jones. In that time I have fought a hundred and seven challenges and killed seventeen werewolves, along with a number of humans and a handful of vampires."

"That's . . ." he watched her struggle for a tactful reply, "Um, unprecedented, I'm sure."

"I do what's good for the pack and for my family name, Miss Jones," he assured her. "You would do _well_ to remember that."

"I'm sure you'll remind me should it slip my mind," she murmured in a tone that bordered right on the edge of facetiousness.

Channing was about to make some cutting response when the library doors opened and Lady Alexia Maccon sailed in, followed by her husband, the Earl and Alpha of the Woolsey pack.

"Miss Jones I presume?" Lady Maccon said, coming closer and giving Channing a quick, dismissive glance. "I know we have not been formally introduced but under the circumstances I feel we may move beyond that particular nicety, shall we?"

"Lady Maccon," he heard her all but squeak. "Yes ma'am."

"Very good. So what's all this about being a werewolf but not being bitten?" Her ladyship demanded. Channing withdrew—not out of earshot—but far enough to be forgotten as the conversation went on.

Although in truth it was more like an interrogation, Channing noted dryly. Her Ladyship asked questions thick and fast, barely giving Miss Jones time to give answers. Occasionally the Alpha asked something or wanted clarification but in the end it was clear that the both of them were more than willing to extend their hospitality to Miss Jones.

"There's a bedroom in the east tower that I'm sure will suit you, and as for the, um, other accommodations . . ."

"The little cell at the foot of the stairs," This was from the Alpha, Channing noted, and his tone was softer than it normally was. "In the alcove. T'is too small for anyone else in the pack you understand, but it should do well for you. A bit more _private_ , like."

"Yes, very thoughtful of you dear," Lady Maccon approved. "And as for a claviger, I think Mrs. Ryder's girl Hannah might be able to serve, at least for the moment."

 _A female claviger,_ Channing snorted mentally. _What was the world coming to?_ He looked up, hoping to catch his Alpha's eye and register his disapproval, but instead, the Earl beckoned him forward.

"A word, Channing," he turned and the Gamma had no choice but to follow. They stepped out into the hall and headed for nearest sitting room, where Lord Maccon gave him a careful look. "You _know_ how difficult this is going to be." It wasn't a question, and Channing nodded.

"Unmated young female among a dozen pups all eager to show off for her? A female who may or may NOT actually be a were?"

"Oh she is," Lord Maccon looked troubled. "Her scent says it, but there's a strange note to it, something I canna quite get. Like a fish with wings."

Channing looked skeptical, but merely murmured, "If you say so."

"Given that we'll know for sure by tomorrow night, I think it's best to be prepared, then. I want _you_ to act as her guardian; you're old enough and strong enough to keep her out of trouble."

"But Lyall—" he protested, only to have the Earl shake his head.

"All three of us will need to be sharp; it's the Hunter's Moon and keeping the pups in line will be no little task as it is. Lyall is best at maintaining the calm; we both know that."

Channing couldn't argue with fact, and gave a curt nod. As the Earl strode off, Channing mentally shrugged; how much trouble could one small female be anyway?


End file.
